The Kookaburra and She

Sylvia stood by the window, the world outside veiled in the gathering gloom of dusk. Her breath came softly, and with it, the half-remembered tune of a long-forgotten song whispered through her lips: “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree, merry, merry king of the bush is he…” The words were barely audible, more like a murmur, carried on the rhythm of her shallow breathing. In her hands, a photograph, well-worn at the edges, trembled slightly as she looked down at it. 

The image captured a moment frozen in time—her younger self and a little girl, no older than seven, standing by the riverbank, feeding the geese. But as Sylvia’s eyes lingered, something in the picture shifted, almost imperceptibly at first. A chill ran up her spine, its cold fingers brushing the back of her neck, though the room was warm.

The whistle of the kettle pierced the quiet, yanking her back to the present. Sylvia blinked, her hands still clutching the photograph as she turned, a strange heaviness clinging to the air. She moved mechanically, almost on autopilot, and began preparing two cups of tea. But when she opened her mouth to call out, the words caught in her throat. A creeping unease settled over her, a sensation too familiar to ignore. She turned back toward the photograph, her fingers trembling now as she held it up to the fading light. Her gaze sharpened, scanning the image more closely. And there it was—something, or someone, that hadn’t been there before. In the background, across the riverbank, a shadowy figure loomed, barely discernible. It was a child, her long black hair cascading over her face, obscuring her features. The dress she wore was as dark as the encroaching twilight, blending almost seamlessly with the shadows of the trees.

Sylvia’s breath hitched. The girl’s face—what little of it could be seen—was too pale, almost translucent, like a figure emerging from the mist that clung to the water’s edge. “Nana?” The soft voice broke the spell, snapping Sylvia from her trance. She nearly dropped the picture, startled by the sudden intrusion. Fay stood in the doorway, her small face peering around the corner, her expression innocent and curious. “You don’t half give your granny a fright sometimes,” Sylvia muttered, chuckling nervously, though her fingers clutched the photograph tighter. She glanced down at the picture again, her heart sinking. The dark-haired girl was gone. Vanished, as if she had never been there at all. Sylvia’s fingers traced the outline where the shadow had stood, her mind swirling with confusion. Could she have imagined it?

“Your tea will be cold by the time you stop staring at how much of an angel I used to be,” Fay teased lightly, picking up both cups and handing one to her grandmother. Sylvia’s gaze drifted toward the window, the photograph still clutched in her hand. Outside, the winter cold pressed against the glass, frosting the edges. The geese by the river huddled together in the fading light, their stillness almost unnatural, as if the world had frozen around them. She wiped the condensation from the window with her sleeve and squinted at the distant landscape. The world outside seemed still, too still, like a painting in which time had stopped. For a moment, everything felt wrong. “Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh… Kookaburra, gay your life must be,” Sylvia sang under her breath, but the familiar words now felt foreign, hollow, as if they belonged to someone else.

“That song…” Fay’s voice broke the silence. “You used to sing it to me when I was little, didn’t you?” Sylvia nodded absently, her eyes never leaving the window. “Yes. I learned it from a friend. Many years ago…” Fay studied her grandmother for a moment, her brow furrowing. “You never talk much about your past. What was your friend like?” Sylvia’s hand trembled slightly as she placed the cup down on the table, the weight of the past pressing down on her. The air in the room felt heavier, as though something unseen was gathering in the corners, waiting. She didn’t answer immediately, her gaze still lingering on the frost-covered glass. Slowly, she turned away from the window, her face pale, as if drained of life. “Do you want to hear a story, my love?” Sylvia asked, her voice soft, almost too calm. Fay nodded eagerly, unaware of the invisible presence that seemed to linger just beyond the edges of the room.

Sylvia took a deep breath, her voice slipping into a quieter, distant tone. “This house wasn’t always like this. In the fifties, the kitchen was the living room. That corner over there,” she pointed, her gesture vague, as if the room itself had changed in her mind, “was where my father sat. And next to it, my mother’s chair.” She paused, her eyes darkening as they moved to the stove. “That was mine and my sister’s sofa.” The words hung in the air like an echo, fading into the stillness. Fay blinked, surprised. “Sister?” she asked, her voice barely breaking the strange silence that had settled over them. “Yes,” Sylvia whispered, her gaze far away. “Her name was Raven.”

She spoke the name like an incantation, as though it had been buried deep inside her for too long. “When my mother was pregnant with her, a raven would come to the nursery window. Every day, it would sit there, watching, always watching.” Sylvia’s fingers curled around her teacup, her knuckles whitening. “But when Raven was born… the bird never came back.” 

The wind outside picked up, rattling the windowpane. For a moment, Sylvia’s reflection seemed to shift, her pale face blending with the encroaching darkness outside. “Raven adored birds,” Sylvia continued, her voice lowering. “By the time she was ten, all she wanted was a bird of her own. And on Christmas morning, there it was—a cage, larger than life, with a kookaburra perched inside.”

A cold shiver ran down Fay’s spine as the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Sylvia’s eyes grew distant, her voice soft and strained. “Raven didn’t have friends. Not human ones, anyway. She preferred the company of her bird. They were inseparable.” Sylvia stared into her tea, her reflection distorted in the ripples of the dark liquid. “I’ll never forget her eleventh birthday. She spent the entire day in her room, just her and the kookaburra. 

When I went to fetch her, I heard her singing.” Sylvia’s voice wavered, the eerie melody slipping from her lips once more: “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree… merry, merry king of the bush is he…”

Fay leaned forward, the unease in her chest growing. “What happened to her, Nan?” Sylvia’s eyes were far away, lost in the shadows of the past. “She was gone. One cold evening, she walked out of the house, wearing a black dress I’d never seen before. She said she was going to feed the geese… but she never came back.” A heavy, suffocating silence followed, pressing down on them like a weight. Fay’s heart pounded in her chest, each beat slow, deliberate, as though time itself had slowed.

“They never found her,” Sylvia whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “But I know… I know she’s not alive.” Fay’s throat tightened as she stared at her grandmother, disbelief flickering in her eyes. “How can you know?” Sylvia’s gaze turned back to the window, her voice hollow. “Because she comes back. I see her sometimes… standing by the river, or in the window, always watching.” Fay’s breath caught in her throat as she followed Sylvia’s gaze to the window. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something—a shadow, perhaps, or the faint outline of a figure standing at the edge of the riverbank. But when she blinked, it was gone.

Sylvia’s voice grew softer, almost a whisper, as though she were speaking to someone who wasn’t there. “She may be gone, but she never truly left. Raven… she’s always watching.” The room grew colder still, the weight of the unseen pressing against the walls, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Fay shivered, setting her cup down with trembling hands. Sylvia’s voice lingered in the stillness, distant and hollow. “She may be dead, but she haunts me still.”

Fay sat frozen, her body tense, as though the weight of Sylvia’s words had seeped into her very bones. The quiet was unbearable now, a thick, suffocating presence that seemed to fill every inch of the room. It clung to the air, heavy and oppressive, as though waiting for something—someone—to break it. Sylvia remained motionless, her eyes still fixed on the window, her lips slightly parted as if she was listening for a sound that Fay couldn’t hear. 

Outside, the world had grown darker, the frost on the glass thickening. The river beyond was shrouded in shadows, the trees on the far side blending into the gloom, their twisted branches like skeletal hands reaching toward the sky.

Fay wanted to speak, to ask her grandmother if she was alright, but something held her back—a deep, primal instinct that whispered for her to stay silent. The stillness of the house felt too fragile, as though any sound might shatter it, and whatever lay beyond would be far worse than silence. After what felt like an eternity, Sylvia finally spoke again, her voice soft, almost detached, as though she were recounting someone else’s story. “It was about a week after Raven disappeared,” she said, her eyes still far away. “My parents were at the police station, talking to anyone who would listen. But I… I was here. Alone.”

Fay shifted in her seat, her pulse quickening. There was something about the way Sylvia said the word alone that sent a fresh wave of unease coursing through her. It was as if being alone in this house was more than just physical isolation—as if something else had been present in the silence, something unseen. “The house… it felt different that night,” Sylvia continued, her fingers curling and uncurling in her lap. “It was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet you get when everyone’s asleep, but a deeper, more oppressive kind of silence. It felt… wrong.” She paused, her gaze lowering to her hands, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I could feel it in the walls. It was like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for something.”

Fay’s breath caught in her throat, her skin prickling with a sudden, cold dread. She glanced toward the hallway that led to the rest of the house, half-expecting to see something—anything—move in the shadows. “I turned on the radio,” Sylvia said, her voice growing fainter, “just to hear something other than that awful quiet. But it didn’t help. The music… it didn’t drown out the silence. It only made it worse.” Fay leaned in, her heart pounding in her chest. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

Sylvia’s gaze flickered toward the ceiling, as if she could see through it, to the floor above. “I heard something,” she whispered. “At first, I thought it was just the house settling. You know, those little creaks and groans old houses make. But it wasn’t that.” She paused again, her eyes widening slightly as though she could still hear it. “It was footsteps. Slow, heavy… dragging footsteps. Upstairs.”

Fay’s skin crawled. She glanced toward the stairs, her imagination conjuring the image of something lurking just beyond the threshold, something that shouldn’t be there. “I couldn’t move,” Sylvia continued, her voice trembling now. “I was rooted to the spot, listening. The footsteps were getting closer, moving across the landing. I wanted to believe it was my parents, but I knew it wasn’t.” Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard. “They were too slow. Too… heavy. Like something was being pulled along the floor.”

Fay’s pulse quickened, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “What did you do?” Sylvia’s gaze darkened. “I turned off the radio. And then… there was nothing. No sound at all. Just that awful silence.” She took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she clasped them together. “I stood there, frozen, waiting. And then… I heard it.” Fay leaned forward, her heart in her throat. “Heard what?” “The birdcage,” Sylvia whispered, her voice trembling. “It started rattling, shaking violently, as though the bird inside was panicking. But that bird—Raven’s kookaburra—it never did that. Not unless…”

Sylvia trailed off, her eyes widening with a mixture of fear and sorrow. Fay felt the words hang in the air, unfinished, the unspoken truth more terrifying than anything her grandmother could say aloud. “It only ever did that when Raven was in the room,” Sylvia finally whispered, her voice cracking. Fay’s mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. “But Raven… she wasn’t there. She couldn’t have been.”

Sylvia shook her head slowly, her face pale. “I don’t know what came over me, but I ran upstairs. I don’t know why—I just had to see.” Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. “The house felt wrong as I climbed the stairs. Colder, darker. The air was so thick, I could barely breathe. And the rattling… it was getting louder. The bird was screeching, but when I reached Raven’s door…” She stopped, her voice catching in her throat. Fay felt her own breath stop as she waited, the tension unbearable.

Sylvia looked up at her, her eyes filled with a haunted emptiness. “It stopped. Everything went silent. The bird, the footsteps… all of it.” Fay exhaled shakily. “What did you do?” “I stood there for the longest time,” Sylvia whispered. “I was too afraid to open the door. I didn’t want to see what was on the other side. But eventually… I did.” Fay’s pulse thundered in her ears as she imagined the moment. “And?” “The room was empty,” Sylvia said, her voice hollow. “The birdcage was gone. Raven was gone.”

The wind outside picked up, howling against the windows like a distant wail. Fay’s gaze darted toward the darkened riverbank, where the trees swayed ominously in the growing wind. “I should’ve felt relief,” Sylvia whispered, her voice barely audible, “but I didn’t. I felt like something was still there. Like something was watching me.” Fay shivered, her eyes scanning the darkened corners of the room, half-expecting to see a shadow shift. “I walked to the window,” Sylvia continued, her voice growing weaker. “And that’s when I saw her.”

Fay’s breath hitched. “Saw who?” “Raven,” Sylvia whispered, her eyes glassy. “She was standing on the other side of the river, with the kookaburra perched on her arm. But… she wasn’t right. Her movements, her posture… it was all wrong. She looked as though she was being pulled along by invisible strings.” Fay’s skin crawled, and she clenched her hands into fists. “What did you do?”

“I banged on the window, screaming for her to stop,” Sylvia said, her voice breaking. “But she didn’t hear me. She just kept walking… into the water.” A suffocating silence filled the room, as if all the air had been sucked out. “She disappeared beneath the surface,” Sylvia whispered, her hands trembling uncontrollably now. “And then… she was gone.”

Fay stared at her grandmother, disbelief and fear warring in her mind. “Did you… did you go after her?” Sylvia shook her head, her eyes glazed with tears. “I ran outside, but when I got to the river, the water was still. So still, it was like glass. There wasn’t a ripple. It was as if she’d never been there.” Fay’s heart pounded in her chest, her skin prickling with cold dread. She could feel the weight of something unseen pressing down on them both, something dark and unknowable. “I fell to my knees by the river,” Sylvia whispered, her voice trembling. “And that’s when I heard it.”

Fay’s breath caught. “Heard what?” “Her voice,” Sylvia said, her eyes wide with terror. “It was faint, carried on the wind, but I heard it.” Fay leaned in, her body tense, barely breathing. “What did she say?” Sylvia’s lips parted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “‘Kookaburra save some there for me…’” The words hung in the air, filling the room with a chilling sense of finality. Fay stared at her grandmother, her heart pounding in her ears. She wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but the fear had taken hold of her, squeezing her throat shut.

Sylvia’s eyes drifted back to the window, her face pale, her expression distant. “I see her sometimes,” she whispered. “By the river, in the shadows… always watching.” Fay’s skin crawled as she followed her grandmother’s gaze, staring out into the darkness. The riverbank was empty now, but the eerie silence pressed in on them, thick and palpable. “She’s always there,” Sylvia murmured, more to herself than to Fay. “She may be gone, but she never truly left.”

The wind howled against the window once more, and for a fleeting moment, Fay thought she saw something—just beyond the trees, at the edge of the river. A shadow, dark and indistinct, standing still, watching. But when she blinked, it was gone.

Fay blinked, her heart pounding as she stared out into the deepening darkness. Her eyes strained to make sense of the shifting shadows beyond the riverbank, but there was nothing—just the dark shapes of the trees and the silent, glassy surface of the river. She wanted to believe it was her imagination, that the cold creeping through her veins was nothing more than a product of the strange tale her grandmother had told. But the feeling of being watched persisted, crawling under her skin like something unseen was pressing closer. She turned her gaze back to Sylvia, who sat motionless at the window, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale and etched with sorrow. The silence between them stretched on, growing thicker, as if the house itself were listening, waiting. Fay felt a strange tension in the air, a weight pressing on her chest, and she had the unshakable sense that something was about to happen.

Finally, Fay broke the silence, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound calm. “Nan… are we… are we living in a haunted house?” Sylvia’s lips twitched into a faint, almost sad smile. She turned her gaze from the window to her granddaughter, her eyes soft but distant. “No, my love. This house isn’t haunted,” she said, her voice gentle, though tinged with a deep sadness. “But I am.” 

Fay swallowed hard, her throat tight. “Haunted… by Raven?” Sylvia nodded slowly. “By Raven. By memories. By all the things I never said, all the things I never did to stop her. She’s always with me, Fay. She’s never really left, even after all these years.”

Fay’s hands trembled as she set her teacup down on the table, the soft clink of the porcelain against wood the only sound in the suffocating quiet. She leaned forward, her voice barely more than a whisper. “But… if she’s never left, where is she now?” Sylvia’s gaze drifted back to the window, her eyes dark and distant, as though she were looking beyond the room, beyond the house, into some place Fay couldn’t see. “She’s out there,” Sylvia whispered, her voice soft, haunted. “She’s always out there… by the river. I see her sometimes, standing on the other side, just watching.”

Fay felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Her breath hitched as her eyes followed her grandmother’s gaze out to the riverbank. The frost on the window had thickened, but she could still make out the shapes of the trees beyond the river. They stood like silent sentinels, their branches swaying gently in the wind, but the river itself remained still—too still.

“Sometimes I see her,” Sylvia continued, her voice growing fainter. “And other times… I hear her.” Fay’s throat tightened. “Hear her?” Sylvia nodded slowly. “Her voice. Faint, like it’s being carried on the wind. It’s always the same song… ‘Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree…’”

The familiar tune sent a fresh wave of unease through Fay’s chest. She glanced nervously at the window, her pulse quickening. “But… it’s not real, right? It’s just a memory. Just—” “It doesn’t feel like a memory,” Sylvia said quietly, cutting her off. Her fingers tightened around the armrest of her chair, her knuckles white. “It feels… real. Too real.” Fay wanted to say something, anything, to reassure her grandmother that it was all in her head, just the lingering grief of a lost sister. But the words wouldn’t come. Deep down, she wasn’t sure if she believed it herself.

Sylvia’s hands trembled as she clasped them together, her voice growing weaker. “I don’t know if she’s trying to reach me, or if she’s just… waiting. But I know one thing, Fay. She’s still out there.” Fay’s breath caught in her throat. “Still… out there?” Sylvia’s eyes glinted with a strange, sorrowful light as she turned to face her granddaughter. “I’ve seen her by the river… and sometimes… I think she’s closer than that.”

The words sent a bolt of fear through Fay’s chest, her skin prickling with dread. She couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder, half-expecting to see something—someone—standing in the hallway, watching them from the shadows. But there was nothing. The house was as still and quiet as it had been before. Still, the unease wouldn’t leave her. The silence felt wrong, like it was too thick, too deliberate, as if the house itself was trying to keep a secret.

“I… I think I should go,” Fay said suddenly, her voice shaky as she stood up from her chair. She felt a sudden urge to be anywhere but there, away from the suffocating quiet and the ghostly memories that seemed to cling to the very walls. Sylvia looked up at her, her eyes soft but understanding. “Of course, love. It’s getting late.” Fay nodded, but the heaviness in her chest remained. She moved toward the door, her heart racing as the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and shift with every step she took. As she reached for the doorknob, she paused, turning back to look at Sylvia one last time.

Her grandmother sat there, still staring out the window, her frail hands resting in her lap, her expression unreadable. And for the briefest moment, Fay thought she heard it—faint, almost too faint to be real—the soft, lilting melody of the kookaburra song, drifting through the house like a distant memory. “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree… merry, merry king of the bush is he…” Fay’s heart skipped a beat. Her eyes darted toward the window, her breath caught in her throat. But there was nothing.

Just the wind outside, rustling the branches, and the river beyond, still and silent in the darkness. She shook her head, trying to dispel the uneasy feeling gnawing at her chest. With one last glance at her grandmother, she turned the doorknob and stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her face like a splash of cold water. It felt refreshing, real. But as she made her way down the path, her footsteps crunching softly in the frost-covered grass, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching her. She glanced over her shoulder, back at the house, and for a moment, she thought she saw a figure standing by the riverbank, its dark silhouette barely visible in the fading light.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she froze, staring at the figure. It was so still, so quiet, standing just at the edge of the water. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Dissolved into the shadows of the night. Fay turned away, her heart racing, and hurried down the path toward home. The wind whistled through the trees, carrying with it the faintest echo of a song that lingered in the air long after she had disappeared into the night.

“Kookaburra save some there for me…”